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Barkhamsted Centennial, 



1879. 



Poem, 

By MRS. EMMA CARTER LEE 



Address, 

By WALTER S. CARTER, 



DELIVERED AT THE 



Centennial Celebration, 

AT BARKHAMSTED, 

Litchfield County, Connecticut, 

Sept. io, 1879. 



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BARKHAMSTED CENTENNIAL, 

1879. 



The town of Barkhamsted, Litchfield County, Connecti- 
cut, celebrated the one hundredth anniversary of its organiz- 
ation, by appropriate ceremonies, September loth, 1879. 
Hon. Hiram Goodwin, of Riverton, presided, and Hiram C. 
Brown, of Riverton, delivered an address of welcome. 
William Wallace Lee, of Meriden, formerly of Pleasant 
Valley, delivered the historical address; Prof. Samuel Henry 
Lee, of Oberlin College, read the poem, written by his wife, 
Mrs. Emma Carter Lee, formerly of Pleasant Valley; and 
Hon. Monroe E. Merrell, of Hartford, formerly of "The 
Hollow," delivered the oration. Impromptu speeches were 
afterwards made by Walter S. Carter, of New York, formerly 



of Pleasant Valley, Rev. Lemuel Richardson, of Port Jeffer- 
son, New York, formerly of Pleasant Valley, William Wallace 
Lee, of Meriden and Rev. Luther H. Barber, of Bolton, 
formerly of Riverton. A poem was also read by E. W. 
Jones, of Winsted, formerly of the " East Mountain." Many 
letters were also read from natives of the town residing in 
different parts of the country. The exercises were of an ex- 
ceedingly interesting character, and passed off to the entire 
satisfaction of the thousands of sons and daughters of the 
town, who had gathered together on the occasion. 



Note.— The following poem and address are printed, the 
former in response to many requests for its publication, and 
the latter solely for the eye of one citizen of Barkhamsted, 
whose sight is better than his hearing. 

W. S. C. 

346 Broadway, New York, October, 1879. 



POEM, 

By Mrs. Emma Carter Lee, Oberlin, Ohio. 



Sweet Tunxis, singing through the vale these hundred 
years, 
We come to thee to aid our song to-day; 

We come with faltering steps and crowding fears ; 
Accompany these words with tuneful lay, 
So all may feel God's blessing by the way. 

Only a little span of time, these hundred years, 
To thee, fair river and eternal liills ; 

But oh! to us who live in smiles and tears. 
The way seems long ; each spirit thrills 
As the strange distance all our vision fills. 

As once a cross was placed by waysides, here and 
there. 
For travelers to rest awhile and pray. 

So we, far up this road of history, drop our care 
And pause to look, to worship, while we say 
Thank God for birthright in this town to-day. 



We come from far and near ; four generations here 
Touch hands, and yet not one of all the throng 

Broke soil, or felled a tree in that lone natal year ; 
Not one saw heaven's pure light, or heard the song 
Of waters swelling through deep woods along. 

On yonder hill, on mossy stones their names we trace ; 
Good names — the aged here to-day will tell 

Of father brave and strong, of mother's gentle grace, 
How some were soldiers, serving country well, 
Those long, dark years that o'er the new homes fell. 

Oh! let us read it o'er, tliat old historic page. 

Count on the flag the thirteen stars again. 
Our morning stars, whose light flashed down the 
nation's age, 
Illumining the way for Freedom's reign ; 
Our grandsires bought sweet peace by strife and 
pain. 

A blest inheritance of liberty they gave, 

Which children's children sacredly have kept, 

Not without cost ; we mourn afresh to-day our brave 
Who quickly shouldered arms, when treason swept 
The old flag down, and o'er it foully crejU. 

One moment only ; yet to plant it firm and high, 
Took years of bloodshed, and we gave our best. 

Who throwing hopes away, for countiy went to die, 
A sacrifice upon her altar blest ; 
No more the stain, or cry of the oppressed. 



The dear old flag, whose stars now shine from sea to 



sea 



Around that central group — a glorious host — 
It waved a hundred years ago for people free ; 
It waves to-day, and 'tis no idle boast, 
Our flag in all the world is honored most. 

A hundred years ago, the world in darkness lay, 
Great spaces intervened, and ways were few ; 

Crowned Science brings the far-off near to-day : 
The Master's words are showing sweet and true ; 
Go teach all nations, love as I love you. 

Our grandsires felt these words in Whitfield's burning 
zeal, 
And Wesley, too, apostle to the poor ; 

Now 't is an age of missions, service is the seal 
Of true nobility, and riches moor 
In Christian channels, where the good is sure. 



But now from larger things we turn our eyes 
To native hills, to mounts that touclied the skies 
We thought as children, to these azure streams 
Whose music haunts us oft in midnight dreams 
And steals a soothing note, where huriying feet 
And weary hearts press down the crowded street, 
And you and I, with temples whitening fast, 
Burdened with cares, look back upon the past 
And say 't was well, that childhood fresh and free, 



'Mid vales and upland, where each chestnut tree 

Held more of promise than our banks to-day, — 

'T was well to climb the rocks, through woods to stray, 

Study the miracles of Nature's way. 

Gather the berries, mingling work with play. 

'T was well we found such golden fruit and fair 

Upon the tree of knowledge, spreading where 

The river flowed, or on the hillside green : 

Oh! gladsome school days, like a silveiy sheen 

Of cloud, the faces long forgot float by 

And names come back ; our teacher's eye 

Again seems on us — teachers kind and true — 

Able, " they builded better than they knew." 

Those gentle ladies in the summer time. 

And noble men in winter's frosty rime. 

When all young life beat quick, and rushed to school 

With such a tide of frolic, every rule 

Swept down, until a firm and patient hand 

Uplifted, guided all the noisy band 

In ways of duty, till the task was done, 

And o'er the old rude seats the lowering sun 

Sent floods of light ; then forth with song and shout 

We thronged all ways, proclaiming school was out. 

Our feet may wander through cathedral aisles. 
In statued halls, and glorious pictured miles. 
And bring some little treasures home to keep, 
Which thief may take, or fire may o'er them sweep ; 
But, oh ! these pictures wrought into the heart 
Like tapestries, are ours ; a royal part 



% 



Of life itself, that naught can take away : 
And as we give the hand-shake here to-day 
And look into the faces, light will fall, 
Renewing light, and we shall see them all, 
Each in its setting of the golden years. 
Some shrined as marbles veiled in misty tears, 
But everywhere God's loving work appears. 

The old church of the centuiy ! picture rare 

Among our treasures, do you see it there 

Spireless upon the hill ? with spreading oaks 

Upon the sloping green, where all the folks 

In summer Sabbath noons talk staid and low, 

While groups of children wander to and fro. 

Wishing their good clothes were for Monday too, 

Or they could sit up-stairs as singers do 

Close to the viol, or those pews so high 

By upper windows, watch the clouds go by, 

Or hear the birds, for sermons were too long, 

And e'en the deacons' heads seemed far from strong ; 

Uplooking to that pulpit quaint, above, 

Where stood a saintly one with father's love 

For all the flock who came from miles around 

There to be fed, no calling bell to sound ; 

Oft cold, but crowded every square-fenced pew, 

Whose paneled sides Time's painting only knew. 

God's tabernacle ! Do you remember how 
The chrism of baptism fell upon your brow 
Down by the altar, when the feast was spread, 
The solemn hush o'er all in breaking bread ; 
The aged group, the poor beneath the stair 



So crushed in spirit, while the song and prayer 

Closed o'er the whole as incense on the air ? 

Oh! let us linger by the sacred place ; 

Here souls were born, and blessed showers of grace 

Came down and watered all the thirsty land ; 

While anthems swelled and hallelujahs grand 

Filled all the house, with grateful, glad acclaim 

To Him who sent the Pentecostal flame. 

Here, too, close by, tliey laid their dead away 

In mother Earth, till resurrection day ; 

So " beautiful for situation," see 

The valley's grace, the great hills' majesty. 

Here in this presence still your hurried feet, 

Take soulful rest, and gather strength to meet 

The coming days that hasten on so fleet. 

We cannot trace the changes time has made : 
Things liave their rise and fall ; 't is first the blade 
And then the ear, then in the ear full corn. 
Fulfilling well the promise of the morn ; 
And yet not all fulfilled, till scattered wide 
Impelling oilier growths ; so here beside 
The dear old hearthstones, — planted long ago, — 
We miss the young and strong ; they're gone to sow 
By other waters : crowded pews no more , 
Though sweet bells call to worship o'er and o'er. 
In newer temples ; altar fires are dim : 
But blessed all who stand and wait with Him, 
Who stand and wait, thrice blessed wait with prayer 
For loved ones on the toiling fields, out where 
The need is sorest ; count no loss to-day 
If of this old town's children you can say 



Good men and women striving for the right, 

No matter whether here or there, God's sight 

Is not like ours. He sees the ripened grain 

Upon its thousand fields, and guides the wain 

Home to its garner with a glad well-done, 

For you who gave the seed. The town begun 

A hundred years ago in lonely wild. 

Where roamed the deer, and lurked the forest child, 

Grew strong and full upon the granite hills. 

Nerved with a vigor like her gushing rills, 

And overflowed, until to-day her bound 

Is not by mount or stream. We look around 

And see her children — men and women all, 

Who 've come with joy, as to a mother's call. 

Is not the old town large as measured, so 

May we not keep it ours where'er we go ? 

And link our work with those who 've gone before, 

Who sing the " Harvest Home " on heavenly shore. 

Their toil all ended, rest forevermore ? 



A hundred years ! we stand before the serried line 
And see how small a space we have to fill ; 

No room for pride — the stars long ages shine 
And rivers flow — this mortal life grows still 
And leaves of dust a handful on the hill. 

So small are we, and yet God's greatest work we know : 
The years are for us, all the good of earth ; 



In His own image made, this life, so brief below. 
Grows into fullness of immortal birth — 
Heir to a royal crown of priceless worth. 

The children of these hills, we bow our heads to-day 
With gratitude for all the century's light ; 

The children of a King, we lift our hearts and pray, 
While the last moments take their silent flight, 
And the new century opens on our sight. 

Oh! may the blessings of the hundred years gone by 
Fall like a mantle on the years to be ; 

Our children better live, while we beyond the sky 
Find native air, a childhood full and free, 
A sinless home through all eternity. 



ADDRESS, 

By Walter S. Carter, of New York. 



Mr. Preside tit and Fellow-townsmen : 

I 'm afraid if I should make a speech now, I might find 
such a state of things as Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes is 
said once to have found. A man arose in the middle of 
his lecture and walked out; but upon dissecting him, he 
was found to be so full that he could n't hold any more. 
However, I presume you '11 not expect much of a speech 
from me. Orators and poets are not found in one small 
family. So you '11 be content, F ve no doubt, if I have merely 
an off-hand talk about old times with you. 

It has been suggested that I speak for New York, 
Illinois and Wisconsin. I 'm sorry for those states if I am to 
be the only spokesman they have on this occasion, though I 
have lived in them all. My life, by the way, has been some- 
what like that of the young lady who was asked where she was 



born ? "I was n't bom any where," said she, " my father is 
a Methodist minister." I did n't stay long, however, in IHinois 
or Wisconsin; they were well enough, but they labored under 
one great disadvantage — they were too far from Barkham- 
sted. Accordingly I removed to New York, which is more 
fortunate. There I am content to abide. 

And first of all let me say, I 'm glad to be here, to join 
with you in celebrating the foremost event in the history of 
the town which gave us birth. It was not an easy thing for 
me to come; important interests claimed me elsewhere; but I 
said to myself, law-suits can — as they generally do — wait; the 
Barkhamsted centennial I am afraid can 't. So I came, and 
I repeat, I find it exceedingly good to be here. 

And now there 's so much to be said, I hardly know where 
to begin. I think I '11 lay down this fundamental proposition 
to start with: Barkhamsted 's a good town to be born in. 
It may occur to you that this is not a particularly new idea; 
that if I 've nothing else to say, I might have stayed at 
home and attended to that law-suit; but still I want to say it, 
right here and now. Suppose some one, who was able to 
live where he pleased, was looking for a place of residence, 
where would he naturally go? Somewhere, of course, where 
there was pure air and Avater, fertile soil, running streams, 
lovely valleys, rugged mountains, good schools and churches, 
and an intelligent and industrious population; and haven't 
you all these ? I 've been to Minnesota for its air, l)ut I never 
found purer air than I breathed for seventeen years upon your 



hill-sides. I 've drank Apollinaris and German seltzer, but I 
never drank as good water as I used to drink at a spring that 
formed the source of the little brook that ran through my 
father's farm. I 've fished in many waters, but I 've never 
seen finer trout than I 've caught in Beaver Brook, nor more 
slippery eels than I 've pulled out of Farmington River. I 've 
seen pleasant valleys, but the only one worth the name to me 
is the little village over between the mountains yonder. I 've 
scaled many a high mountain, but I never felt so much up in 
the world as I did one day in I844, when we fired a cannon 
from the top of the mountain there, over the election of 
Polk and Dallas, to the profound disgust of my uncle, Deacon 
Virgil Taylor. I was once a member of the Board of Educa- 
tion in the city where I lived, but I never saw a better school 
than the old " Green " school in the days when Elisha John- 
son, whom I see, and Seymour Cornish, whom I 'd like to see, 
kept it. I ought, at any rate, to speak well of it; it has been 
the educational bridge that has carried me safely until now. 
In my law-firm in New York we have four graduates, two 
of Yale, one of Princeton and one of Barkhamsted. I 've 
had Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Columbia and Wesleyan 
graduates for my clerks, but never one from Barkhamsted — 
partnerships we keep for those. I was once invited to at- 
tend a meeting of the alumni of Wesleyan University. I 
could n't go, but sent a telegraphic regret somewhat as 
follows: " Present my compliments and regrets to President 
Foss and assure him of my cordial appreciation of Wesleyan 



University, though mj'self a graduate of that more renowned 
institution of learning, Barkhamsted college for both sexes." 
I 've heard many eloquent sermons, but the most eloquent one 
I ever heard was by Elder Creagh, at a five o'clock meeting 
down in the " Valley " school-house. I 've been much inter- 
ested in Sunday schools, but I was never so interested as I was 
the day 1 attended my first one, down in the old church by 
the burying-ground yonder. I recollect I went home and 
ran bawling around the house: 

Amos Beecher 
Is my teacher. 

I suspected then that there was a good deal of undiscovered 
and undeveloped poetry lying around loose in our family, 
but I never felt quite sure of it until to-day. I 've heard 
much good singing, but it seems to me the best chorus I have 
ever heard was the day " Priest " Hazen, as we used to call him, 
was installed. There was James Tiffany, with his bass, and 
William Tiffany, with his bass-viol. I recognize the latter 
now, though the player has grown old faster than the instru- 
ment, these thirty-five years. And there was Hannah 
Tiffany and I don 't know how many other Tiffanys, and 
Warren Taylor, and Grandison Wilder, and many others 
whose names (but not whose voices) have gone from my 
recollection. Corydon Taylor's tune, "Louvan," is sung in 
every land under the sun and will be sung forever. I 've 
seen fertile soil, but that of Barkhamsted, for some crops. 



is easily the best in the world. It certainly has raised 
more lawyers to the square acre than any I have ever 
heard of. Twenty-five years ago, also, it produced better 
watermelons than any place I have ever known. Those 
raised by Deacon Hart Doolittle were especially excel- 
lent. Indeed, I greatly preferred them to those grown 
by his neighbor, Mr. Evits Carter. I wish I could say 
as much for Deacon Doolittle's pumpkins. The water- 
melons, I repeat, taken internally, were very good ; the 
pumpkins, on the contrary, taken externally — applied as 
I once knew one to be — forcibly to the pit of one's stomach, 
were very bad. Our Butler was an unfaithful servant 
that time. I ought to say, just here, that I 've always felt 
a trifle unkindly towards the Deacon, that once, when I 
was seeking to test the quality of his melons — simply that 
I might intelligently testify to their excellence on this 
centennial occasion — he should have assailed me as he did, 
chasing me through the Farmington River at the imminent 
peril of my health. But the spirit of forgiveness has been 
growing on me meanwhile. I have forgiven Deacon Doo- 
little. I hope he has done the like by me. 

We have with us to-day — a sort of son-in-law of the town — 
a distinguished Professor of Political Science in one of the 
great colleges of the country. I venture to say, however, 
that if he could have been here twenty-five or thirty years 
ago, when sundry of our fellow-citizens, of somewhat 
mixed descent, were impounded, over the Sunday before the 



Spring election, in a Hitchcockville ball-room, preparatory to 
being escorted to the polls on Monday, he would have 
learned some things in political science that he never acquired 
at Yale, has never taught at Oberlin, nor found in any 
of the books on that subject. Professors Reuben Pinney, 
Cornwell Doolittle, and Lyman Hart could have taught 
him a few things, I 'm sure. 

A distinguished statesman predicting, recently, the early 
revival of business, said he expected to see such prosperity 
ere long, that even inland towns would aspire to become 
seaports. I congratulate you in advance. When that time 
comes how can it be otherwise than that you become a great 
commercial center? You have a light-house, more widely 
known than that of Eddystone, already built. Let Barkham- 
sted's most distinguished son, the representative of your 
second district in Congress and a member of the Committee 
of Ways and Means, not forget the possible increase of 
government revenue from this source. 

As it was difficult, there were so many good things that 
could be said, to know where to begin, so now I find it 
equally difficult to know where to stop. But I see around 
me many from whom you will want to hear, and for them 
I gladly make way. My last words to my native town on 
this her centennial day, shall be those of Rip Van Winkle in 
the play: "Here's to your good health and that of your 
family. May they live long and prosper." 



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